‘Please Help the Littlest Hobo Find a Room’ was the title of the Facebook group I set up in desperation two weeks ago. I had already been searching for somewhere to live for a month through all the usual channels and hadn’t found anywhere I would actually enjoy living. The thought of having to advertise myself like a second hand B&Q barbeque was pretty mortifying.
In the past I have without a thought, moved in with friends, my sister or boyfriends. But things are different now. All my friends have fiancés or husbands. My sister has a serious partner. And ex-lovers mostly have wives and children and I’m not sure how they’d feel about me cozying up on the settee to watch Come Dine With Me. (Though we’d all have a lot in common so it could be a laugh I suppose).
I have spent hours trawling ‘Spare Room’ and ‘Gum Tree’ to find ads which don’t demand (in Nazi style capital letters) that IF YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO ADHERE TO THE STRICT CLEANING ROTA DO NOT EVEN BOTHER GETTING IN TOUCH and NATIVE SPEAKERS OF ENGLISH ONLY NEED APPLY. Not that I’m untidy, but I do come from Darlington so that might prove a problem.
One advert ended with a note flagging up that there was also a ‘very well behaved dog’. ‘That’s cool,’ I thought, I love dogs. Upon arrival however I realised she had failed to mention her two six-year-old children that were tearing around the flat naked, whilst not one, but *four* Chihuahuas barked mentally at the infant invasion. Did she think by highlighting one dog in the advert she’d thrown me off the scent and I wouldn’t notice the screaming children, and the other three furry friends at the viewing? Had the children just escaped when she came to answer the door? Are they normally kept in a drawer a la ‘Carole’ in The Brittas Empire? I left promptly.
I got so desperate last week that I even contemplated moving in with a middle-aged man who I feared may kill me during the night. The house was beautiful, so I persisted (though I would definitely be putting a lock on the door). A day later he texted me late at night: “Just one thing, I forgot to mention we have a mouse infestation”. Forgot to mention?! Alas, my desperation remained. The Mouse House was beautiful. “Come over tomorrow for breakfast and meet the other housemate, a lovely girl,” he texted. I agreed (did I mention how beautiful the house was? And there was a hardware shop selling locks and pepper spray just around the corner).
I arrived for breakfast and alas, the girl was indeed wonderful, interesting, sweet and we appeared to have masses in common. The fry-up was also rather delicious. An hour later and all seemed sorted. “So, shall we speak later?” I asked him. “Hmmmmm” he muttered ominously in a non-communicative way, “I have to work out what I want. I’ll let you know”. Alas, that night the lovely girl texted to tell me another ‘friend’ was moving in instead. Funny that- there had been no mention of another friend during either meeting. What had I done? Was it because I ate the white of the egg before the yolk? Ate three rashers of bacon rather than two? I wasn’t being greedy – the rashers were tiny (mouse sized in fact.). I burst into tears defeated. Why was this so hard? It seemed like North-East London didn’t want me to move in.
Then out of the blue a good friend offered some wise words. “Stay strong and be open to everything that is on offer. Don’t put a barrier on things.” Ten minutes later I got a text from my best mate Liz to say her friend had a six-week sublet in a creative warehouse in Hackney. Apparently the people were lovely, friendly, open and warm and there were no mice, children and definitely no Nazis or murderers in residence. And just like that, my homeless panic lifted and I immediately saw my destiny.
I may indeed be the Littlest Hobo, but not in the bad joke, homeless mutt sort-of-way it was initially intended. Like the real Littlest Hobo that wandered from place to place, I feel I am destined, at least for a short while, to do just that. As long as there’s no set contract, the people are lovely and the area is creative and fun, then I’m there – whether for two weeks or six months. I may stay longer at some than at others. I may even tire of it after a while and eventually want to put down some roots. But for now being the Littlest Hobo makes me feel free and excited and 2013 looks set to be a year of adventure where pretty much anything goes. Do however have a quiet word with me if I start barking at squirrels and sniffing other dogs’ bottoms.
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Leanne Davis is a writer/actor/standup, repressed Catholic and may well be 30. She was recently shortlisted for the BAFTA/Rockcliffe New Writing Award and the Funny Women Comedy Writing Award. Her first professionally commissioned short is in post-production and the film Roots in which she played a struggling young* mother was selected for the BFI London Film Festival 2012 and the 10th London Short Film Festival 2013. (*They missed out young in the credits but clearly that’s what they meant.)
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Pictured: The Littles Hobo, Leanne Davis
